


Changes

by lamaro



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Homesick Lance (Voltron), I'm Sorry, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron)-centric, My First Work in This Fandom, sad times for my sad boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:09:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamaro/pseuds/lamaro
Summary: “I’m afraid of tomorrow.”The first time he hears the words he laughs.The he's off to the Garrison, thrown into an alien war, and forced to rush back home to protect Earth.It's then that it all truly sinks in.





	Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! My name's Xander, but u can call me X! This fic is honestly very spur of the moment and I don't know were it will be going or how long it will be, I've decided to just go with the flow. I tried publishing this work of mine earlier on but decided to change directions and use that other concept for a one-shot. I don't know when I will be updating this but as soon as I get the story going I'll try to get a regular schedule going.

It’s the gentle push and pull of tides, reaching their fingers to graze the sand. The heat radiating off his skin, hair strands knotted against his scalp. The breeze weaving through tall golden grass and green palms. Maybe even more so, the aroma of food being prepared just yards away in the pizza shack, a popular joint for the locals, and a spot filled with fond memories. The conglomeration of nostalgia washes over him as he hums, hunched, arms resting on his knees.

 

It was a much needed relief to escape the hectic energy of the McClain household. The walls were practically bursting at the seams trying to contain bodies and voices that floated inside, to the point where he couldn’t hear his own thoughts. The anxious energy he harbors grows the longer he stands in that space filled with screeching children, and in turn, loud lectures. Escapism was his best bet if he didn’t want to explode by sundown.

 

It was a strange feeling though, finding himself by the waves. He thrives off of family gatherings and busy environments, always something to do, new people to meet, old ones to catch up with. Social interaction was his oxygen, therefore, the quiet felt suffocating. Even now, with his pruned toes curled in the sand, only a handful of people traipsing the shoreline, he feels uneasy. But he doesn’t really have a choice. The complexity of change will never exist inside your comfort zone. 

 

It was a few years back, in the midst of a summer drive, when Marco posed the question.

 

Lance was hunched, one strawberry leg spread across the dashboard, and the black leather seats of the honda accord scorching where shorts didn’t shield it. A loose button down he got from Goodwill was slumping down his shoulder and pooling around his elbow as his arm was reaching in front of himself, attempting to sort through the static radio stations. Marco sipped leisurely on his four shots of espresso, a morning ritual, before switching gears on the stick shift. The janky air conditioning did nothing to quell the humid tropics, so Lance’s other hand lay occupied frantically fanning his forehead. He pulled a headband out the backpack at his feet, pushing brown curls out of his vision, and swiped his palm across the sweat on his rosy cheeks. The horizon behaved like an oven, radiating heat waves and cooking rubber tires with the added friction. Marco paid no mind to any of this though, basking in the sun’s rays contently. He’s the kind of person to wear a suit in record-breaking highs, but complain about the chill in seventy-degree weather.

 

He’s pressing the button to roll down the front windows, and Lance begins to praise the lord for blessing him with beautiful, gracious wind, but the joy is short-lived by the older boy digging around in his skinny jean pockets for a pack of ciggarettes. Partially so he can rest his arm, and partially to distract from fumbling hands reaching for the lighter in the cup holder, he pulls back from the dial, leaving the radio on some indie song, and leans back against the headrest. Out of his peripheral, wrinkled knuckles extend and slump as he rhythmically taps his fingers on the steering wheel. He hums a foreign tune to himself in between exhaling and inhaling clouds. The stench of second hand smoke crawls to flared nostrils and leaves their luggage on taste buds. Disgruntled, Lance crosses his arms with a huff. If Marco notices, he doesn’t say anything. 

 

It had been like this for a while, this on and off. He tried quitting, but nothing ever seemed to satisfy the itch. So he kept going back to the slow drag of nicotine, and who was Lance to quarrel with him? All he can do is sit and question how a guy so disciplined can fall apart so easily at the aid of addiction. He glances side eyed at him, swirls of white twisted around the tip of his nose, cig situated comfortably between chapped lips, and it’s a strange set of circumstances ‘cause it’s meshed itself into being a part of his character so effortlessly. It’s assumed control of his life, wrapping his limbs in a vice grip every time he gets an urge, forcing him to step into an alleyway or parking lot and relieve the pain, lessen the grip. He knows that body: the person it inhabits, the bones it structures, the legs that walk it. Yet as his index and middle finger holds his life in it, it feels like he doesn’t. Not the freckle on his right eye, nor the deep timber of his voice. It’s like he’s a shell of the man that used to rule oceans, and now lays washed up at shore, a slave to the tides, being tossed back and forth. Veronica makes it seem as though she’s indifferent towards the topic, but behind closed doors shares the same frustrations. She’s never been one to find that kind of stuff attractive. On the other hand, mama’s once blinding fury of not wanting to lose another family member to lung cancer has decreased to mild annoyance as he got older and she realized she could only do so much. Now she’s uncaring as to what he does with his spare time, but worries nonetheless. 

 

Of course Lance would never attempt to convey any of this mess to him. Typically not one prone to avoidance, you’d be surprised how far Marco would go to ignore this problem as it festers.

 

As if to taunt him, Marco goes as far down the stick as he can, looking satisfied at his work, before flicking the nub out onto asphalt and drawing the windows up. Lance’s thumbs are twiddling out of boredom.

 

The rift between conversation widens.

 

Growing up, the siblings and mama were seemingly attached at the hip, but as they got older, and the little kids who weren’t so little anymore had their own rascals, things around the house only got more wild, leaving Lance stumbling after him. So it wasn’t peculiar that Marco quickly became the go-to family member when he needed someone to confide in. Although most interactions they have are kinda short-lived and based on logic, and some of their shared experiences have left Lance wishing he’d never opened his mouth in the first place, he had his back. A comradery of sorts. It was...comforting, to know Lance could tell him anything without facing any scary repercussions or judgement, since that’s what typically holds his thoughts back from escaping his head. 

 

So, at sit-down restaurants, on car rides, anywhere with extended time, they pick random topics - anything to get the juices flowing- and speak until their throats go scratchy and eyes start drooping.

 

They’d been having plenty of thought-provoking discussions on that trip, but on that stretch of highway, that part where the roads are surrounded by water and forest, and the sky is cloudless, it’d slipped into a dull quiet. All that you could hear was the tap, tap, tap of fingers and the low humming of the engine beneath them. The clicking rhythm of the blinker joins the mix from time to time, but goes as quickly as it comes. 

 

Marco, ever the one for dramatics, breaks the silence promptly at a deep sigh, a twist of a neck, and a string of words spoken with all the nonchalance in the world. 

 

“What do you most fear?”

 

Lance turns to look at him slowly, eyebrows furrowed and features bemused. “Is this really where we’re starting this conversation?” he thought. “Everything he says is so absurd. Where does he even come up with this stuff?” Of course it wasn’t Lance’s first time thinking about this, either, though. The way Marco spoke it indicated he didn’t mean something superficial like “spiders” or “heights”. It was more personal, more deep, y’know? Like one of those philosophical, contemplating mortality kind of ones. Whether it was Lance’s constant overthinking or the casualness in how Marco approached it, though, it led him to be hesitant. The very thought is something that’s plagued him since he was young.

 

What  _ does _ Lance most fear? Failure, for one. More so rooted in the thought of not being enough. Years of childhood trying to appease everyone to no avail played a part. Looking for validation from others helped, too. There was always anxiety at the first signs of deteriorating relationships, the scare of rejection, the thought of never being able to amount to anything because no matter what he does he’ll never be enough for  _ someone _ . He’s rooted so much of his worth into how quantifiable the attention he’s getting is, rather then the quality of that attention, that he’s subjected himself to loneliness, thinking the isolation is better than being a liability.

 

However, he couldn’t begin to muster the confidence to explain this to Marco. So, he losely shrugged and stared out at the waltzing trees, lips set in a thin line. Hyper-aware, he could feel sweat trickling down his neck. The wheels in his head were spinning trying to calculate how bad the circumstance would be if he just sucked it up and told him.

 

Marco was visibly unsatisfied with his muteness, so he asked again, sounding more exasperated.

 

“C’mon bro, what do you most fear? I haven’t got all day.”

 

It rings in the confines of the car and Lance tenses up, shoulders raised to his ears, uncomfortable and desperately wanting this to be over. But he knows Marco won’t back down until he says something,  _ anything _ , so he forces an excuse out.

 

“I don’t know”, he chuckles nervously, “That’s a really hard question to respond to.”

 

Marco’s face is neutral, crows feet around his eyes, but there’s something hidden beneath the surface. It’s like he wants to say something, like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but instead he just sets his jaw. Lance can easily tell he’s not buying it. Squinting eyes prod at him, trying to get the teen to reveal a part of himself that he wasn’t sure he could even admit aloud. He didn’t want the confirmation that it’s true. If he just ignores it altogether, it disappears, right? At least that was what he was telling myself.

 

“It’s not  _ that  _ hard Lance, I’m sure you already know it and you’re just not saying it.”

 

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, he decided to be what he’s always been good at: persistent in his stubbornness. So the younger brother deflects the question, and leaps at his chance to switch it on him.

 

“Well, if it’s such an easy question to  _ you _ ...what do  _ you  _ most fear, Marco?” He asks inquisitively.

 

Eyes roll in annoyance and Marco softly chuckles with a gentle shake of his head. At this point he realizes he’s not gonna be able to get it out of him, and takes the carefully planted bait, but to Lance’s surprise, with no unsurety in his voice, eyes set on the road ahead, he says “I’m afraid of tomorrow.”

 

This dude has successfully given Lance more incidences of whiplash in the past five minutes then he’s felt riding in the back of the token family SUV.

 

(Note To Self: Get Roni to drive it next time, not Luis).

 

He tries to recollect himself and start his incessant rambling, explaining how natural the response is to feel worried about the future, but Marco stops him dead in his tracks with a pointed look, as if he reads minds now, apparently.

  
  


“Not a couple of years from now, not weeks. I’m afraid of tomorrow.”

  
  


“Hold the phone, Marco” Lance says bewildered, “You seriously mean to tell me there’s some sort of difference? Tomorrow  _ is  _ the future. Tomorrow is just as temporary as a week from now, so why tomorrow specifically?” He pridefully places his fingers on his chest and tilts his head over his shoulder. “ _ I _ , for one, personally think the unknowingness of tomorrow is what makes everything so enjoyable.”

 

Marco just looks at him incredulously, and chuckles at the expressiveness.

 

“Just because  _ I _ fear it doesn’t mean  _ you _ have to fear it too, Lance.” Another eye roll follows.

 

“But I just don’t get it! You can’t just sit there worrying about stuff that hasn’t even happened yet. You’ll just be stressed out all the time.” Lance literally can’t believe the words he’s hearing.

 

“ _ Okay _ , Lance.” 

 

“I just think it’s unreasonable.”

 

“Oh really?” He says with the quirk of an eyebrow, “Is that so?” 

 

“Well, yeah.”

 

“Are you  _ so _ sure?”

 

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Marco.”

 

“Okay...then how about _ your  _ biggest fear? Is it justified, or is it also unreasonable, hmm?” He glances at him with a smirk.

 

Lance gives him a long stare.

 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” he says dejectedly, arms crossing even tighter around himself.

 

“Lance,” he speaks seriously, “I just bared my heart, my  _ soul _ , to you. My deepest inner thoughts! How could you betray your brother like this. Your own flesh and blood.” The staged hurt was apparent in his words.

 

“Quit being so dramatic Marco, I’m sure you’ll be just fine.” Lance says with the wave of his hand.

 

And then, like a lightbulb, Marco’s face lights up mischievously, and Lance prepares himself for the onslaught of stupidity to follow. 

 

“Oh no! My skin! It is…” He ponders before lighting up once more, “...slowly melting! Yes, slowly melting! The only way to cure this curse is for Alejàndro Fernán McClain” ---

 

Lance groans. “Ugh,  _ please  _ don’t use my full name”---

 

“To tell me his soul-crushing fear in the next ten seconds!” He finishes, yelling over Lance, grin wide.

 

“You’re not actually serious”---

 

“Ten, nine”---

 

“Marco, this isn’t gonna work on me, y’know? I’m not five anymore.”

 

“Eight, seven, six, five”---

 

“Keep going, you won’t get it out of me.”

 

“Four, three, two, one and three quarters”---

 

“Oh my god.” Lance says giggling and shoving his face into his hands.

 

“One and a half, one and one quarter… any last words, hermano? Before you live in guilt at the sight of my rotted corpse strung across this seat?” he peaks one opened eye at Lance, hoping he’ll crack under the pressure.

 

Two can play at that game.

 

“Have fun in hell, bro.”

 

Marco gasps in shock. “Lance! You wound me!” The back of his hand is thrown across his forehead, and he slumps down slowly in the seat.

 

“Oh no! I’m melting! My precious life, gone forever!” He cries out.

 

The siblings take a short pause to look at each other before immediately falling into hysterics.

The laughter doesn’t die down until what feels like hours later.

 

Lance takes a deep breath and a smile slips its way onto his face as he stares out the passenger seat window.

 

“You’re crazy, you know that, right?”

 

“To be honest, aren’t all McClain's a little crazy?”

 

“Touché.”

 

“...”

 

“...”

 

“So… are you gonna tell me?”

 

“No.” Lance deadpanned, unamused.

 

“Please?” He begs.

 

“No.”

 

“Pretty pretty please?” 

 

“Hmm, you know what let me think about it for a second… yeah, no.”

 

“You’re no fun.” He says with a frown and puppy dog eyes. But he leaves it at that.

 

The siblings soon end up detouring to the nearest rest stop to take a break and the conversation ends as soon as it began, leaving more questions left than answered.

  
  
  
  


 

 

It took Marco dying in a car crash while coming home from the grocery store the very next day for the words to truly sink in.

  
  


 

 

 

The temporariness of things really doesn’t settle until you lose something you once had. Maybe it’s something you didn’t pay any mind to, because it was always there, like a take things for granted situation. Maybe it’s a reliance on something, like when an object you own gets misplaced or broken. Maybe it’s a reliance on someone, whether they move away, stop contacting you, or, well, die. And it’s always abrupt. Always one moment fine, the next not. Even if it isn’t your fault, the grief hits you like a sucker punch to the face. A shot through the heart at point blank range. It stings and bruises and leaves a scar there, one that can’t ever be healed.

 

So yeah, Lance could say he gets it now when Marco said he’s afraid of tomorrow.

 

Since then it’s been added to Lance’s list, as well.

 

Which is how he’s ended up here, sands in crevices and the sun setting on the horizon of ocean.

 

A ripped envelope flaps at his side, the letter inside just as neat and orderly as he expected. He teared it in a rush as soon as it had plopped down on his front door step. The mailman may have given him a weird look for it, but what did he care? It was finally here, it was finally happening, the Galaxy Garrison, the institution he’s been reaching for since the words first graced his ears.

 

He was absolutely _terrified_ to see what it said.

 

He applied quite some time ago, roughly three months ago. It’s his dream school, all he’s ever worked towards. His fascination with the stars as a kid made him yearn strongly to be flying among them, and the Garrison is the best of the best for that.

 

Now the papers are tapping against his ankle, calling him to read them.

 

There were really only two outcomes of the situation: he got accepted and will have to leave his family tomorrow to go, or he was denied and he carries out his life here in Cuba. He really doesn't want it to be the latter. But leaving means change, it means leaving behind people he holds so closely to his heart. Tomorrow holds the new start in another country or another repetition of today.

 

He peaks a glance at the letter.

 

It’s an acceptance into the cargo pilot class.

 

 

  
  
  
  


  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> And we're off! This chapter is a more set-the-scene kind, so next chapter does move directly into the good ol' crew in space. and a lot more angst, because I'm horrible. :)


End file.
